Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
RENZO
“How do you feel about your recent flirt with death?”
My new therapist doesn’t beat around the bush. Problem is I’m a Beneventi. Emotions are prey, and vulnerability the blood our enemies feed from.
“Flirting comes naturally.” I cross an ankle over a knee, recline in the expensive chair, and gesture toward her desk. “Says so in one of those files.”
I live by the three Ds: dodge, distract, and delay. But a fourth D, never part of the equation, landed me here—dying.
I fucked up, but survived.
But my father’s patience is worn out.
The shrink’s office is lush. Signed artwork on the walls.
Harvard degree prominently displayed behind her desk.
My father’s taken a new approach this time; this one’s less drill sergeant and more spank-bank material.
The confident gleam in her eyes says she believes she’ll succeed where others have failed.
Not understanding we Beneventi come with a shutoff valve. Charming mafiosi one minute and hacking men apart with chain saws the next.
No amount of psychobabble can penetrate that. Or what it takes to thrive in the Life.
“You don’t want to be here.”
Bing-fucking-go. “What makes you say that?”
Her sigh sounds like an eye roll. “The emergency response report says oxygen had to be administered.”
Finally, something we can talk about, even if she doesn’t get the answers she wants.
“I was hanging from a Saint Andrew’s cross. Do you understand how much effort that took?”
She stares at me like she’s trying to read my soul.
I smirk. “Closest I’ve come to a religious experience.”
“You agreed to therapy.”
“My father’s persuasive.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t want it.”
“Sure you can. Depends on your definition of helpful.”
She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
I rake my eyes over her. All buttoned up, hair in a twist, makeup flawless. A woman men marry. I could have her on this desk, skirt hiked and thighs spread within minutes. No challenge there.
“You died.”
“Yes.”
“Did you want to die?”
“No.” I unwrap a purple lollipop I stole on my arrival from a jar by the door and slip it into my mouth. Enjoying the pick-me-up from the sugar burst while Debbie Downer here tries to go deep.
She can’t help me.
I’ve crossed the fine line so many times it’s faded into the earth.
Psychiatrists get off on exploring trigger moments.
My fucking issues stem from not pulling the trigger—literally.
A few months ago, the Twelve gathered in Rome, with Sandro and me in attendance.
My father demanded an audience with the famiglie heads and called out the capo of the southeast, Bible Belt Benny Manocchio, and his puppet, Emilio Conti, for their interference with the Beneventi casino expansion.
Like I said, we don’t have a shutoff valve.
Fuck around and find out, is our family motto.
They denied involvement.
My father then hauled Conti’s uncle from our rental car’s trunk, handed me a gun and the incredible honor of becoming a made man right then and there.
For years, I’d contemplated this moment and how it’d play out. The dread that’d hit me. The reluctance to step up into the spotlight that comes with being my father’s son.
But my mind is twisted, bent. Un-fucking-ly unpredictable.
Everyone assumes I balked. Even my father. Even my goddamn twin. No one sees the truth.
There have been whispers ever since.
Wild. Unreliable. Weak.
My therapist flips open a file, then clears her throat. “Your IQ is 151?”
“That what it says?”
“That’s exceptionally high.”
“Exceptionally irrelevant, with one exception.” I take a long lick of my lollipop, then tap it against my temple.
“This fucking head is a weapon. One snap and I’m not a man anymore but your worst nightmare.
No remorse. No soul. Just hunger. But at least there’s sex and drugs to keep the beast at bay. ”
She’s pleased I’ve opened up though not taking me seriously.
Rome was the trigger moment that sent me spiraling. I hurt everyone in the wake of it. Smashed expectations, broke promises, becoming the man everyone believes I am.
I’ve done horrible, shitty things, and am struggling to find a way out.
The shrink leans in, still stuck on IQ. “Craving stimulation is common in the highly intellectual.”
“Or maybe you’re projecting. Looking for someone who shares your boredom in day-to-day life.”
Her lips part. Yeah, I can psychobabble, too.
“You attended Harvard?” It’s a rhetorical question with the answer on the wall.
“Yes.”
“You ever meet Massimo Grassi?”
She blushes. Interesting.
“No.”
But she’s heard about him. I bet Massimo got more action on campus than the Harvard libraries.
“You’re his type. Intelligent. Conservative. Blonde.”
She swallows hard and shifts in her chair. “And what’s your type?”
“Every type’s my type.” It’s bullshit I feed her, and myself.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I love a lot of things. Freedom. Drugs. Bondage. Fucking.”
“Is there a woman in your life?”
“Not anymore.” I frown. I burned that bridge, torched it to the motherfucking ground.
Her eyes narrow. “But there was?”
I ask myself the same thing. Was there or wasn’t there? Do twenty-four hours, with a few stolen moments scattered on top, even measure up to a lifetime?
“Lorenzo … let me help you.”
I snort. “Help me?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Let’s fuck.”
She sits up straighter. Yet, it’s too late, the flash in her eyes gave her away. “Um … ah … your father asked I get you sober for his wedding.”
His wedding to my almost-fiancée. I seem to be accumulating them like baseball cards.
“Asked or demanded?”
“He cares.”
“Love’s never been the issue.”
I can’t pretend I’m in control, not after what happened.
The least I can do for my father after the fuckup in Rome is attend his wedding sober. But I don’t need a shrink to help me with that.
I take another long lick of lollipop, then my sugar-coated lips.
Her eyes tracking the movement.
“Have you thought about what I said?”
Her words catch in her throat. “What did you say again?”
“You prefer I make it easy for you?” I toss the lollipop into the can beside her desk and offer her a smirk that ruins women. “Stand, hike up your skirt, and bend over the desk.”